Finding What Was Lost
by Adnama
Summary: Harry discovers a journal in Sirius' room. He learns that not only was Snape's memory in the pensieve misleading, but everything he thought he knew about his parents was completely wrong. Rating for later chapters. Nothing gratuitous.
1. A Surprising Discovery

A/N: This story is canon up until the last chapter of _The Deathly Hallows_. Although this chapter is very Harry Potter centric, and therefore, depressing (because really, when is Harry not depressed?), this story will be mostly light-hearted with a sprinkle of drama. Please hang in there! Lily and James will quickly become the center of the story, but I will also show glimpses of the lives of Sirius, Remus, and Peter.

Oh, and one more thing – please review!

Chapter 1 – A Surprising Discovery

Harry Potter gazed listlessly around the gloomy bedroom on the second floor of Grimmauld Place. Tattered window treatments, thin and holey like week-old Swiss cheese, let small slivers of light pierce the dark chamber, dimly illuminating the once plush furniture scattered around the room. The odd bit of parchment lay forgotten on the grimy rolltop desk in the corner and quills with worn nubs littered the floor directly below. Harry sunk despondently into the spindly chair and slid his fingers across the smooth surface of the desk, barely aware of his own body's movements.

Five years ago today, his godfather vanished behind the Veil. Five years since Harry had dared venture beyond the heavy oak door with the scratched out _Sirius Black _nameplate. So torn with grief and guilt, Harry had not returned to Grimmauld Place at all since the Department of Mysteries attack. Cowardice? Maybe. But he preferred to think of it as self-preservation. He knew that once he entered that room he would never be the same. But now he'd done it. After five years of avoiding mirrors for fear that they might reveal him for the real coward he was, Harry had swung open the door to the past and entered with only a moment's hesitation.

He had not known what to expect. Perhaps some small part of him had hoped to see Sirius reclining gracefully on his bed reading the Daily Prophet. But all he saw was an unmade bed, stuffy linens, a hastily discarded bathing robe on an upturned chair, and a long-forgotten and nearly petrified apple core resting eerily on the nightstand. A thick layer of dust and grime covered every inch of the room. Harry felt a bubble of hysteric laughter close up his throat. It was almost as if Sirius had just left for a quick kip down to the kitchen for a midnight snack. But Harry knew better. Sirius wasn't raiding the pantry. He was dead. So why was Harry here? It felt wrong to have invaded his godfather's private chamber, but he couldn't help himself. He had to have closure. He had to fill the aching hole in his heart, the one that grew steadily larger with each loss in his life. His parents, Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, and now Ginny. How much more could he stand? He knew it was only a matter of time before the hole in his heart devoured his remaining will to survive. The war was not yet over, and yet, he had lost so much. Somedays it seemed easier to just stop fighting.

But he still had Ron and Hermione and the remaining Weasleys, and he would continue to hold on for them. But to do so, he would need this little bit of comfort. He needed to know more about his godfather, his last connection to his parents. Before the war really hit home, Harry remembered Remus teasing Sirius about his habit of journaling every evening before bed. He hoped that the habit was something Sirius had retained from his time at Hogwarts. That he could finally get a little insight into the lives of his parents and their friends. But maybe that was too much to hope for. Knowing Sirius, if such a journal existed, he would have gone to great lengths to hide it. Since his escape from Azkaban, Sirius had become increasingly paranoid, afraid that any information written down could end up in the hands of a Death Eater. A valid delusion, but one that Harry hoped hadn't driven his godfather to destroy his only legacy.

Fingers dancing across the smooth surface, Harry was startled out of his reverie when his finger snagged on a rough splinter near the back of the desk.

"Damn it." He quickly jammed his finger into his mouth, sucking the bead of blood that had accumulated at the tip and soothing the prick with his tongue.

He eyed the offending crack with growing excitement as he realized that a slat of the desk had pulled free of its grooves revealing a dark recess usually hidden by papers and quills. He pulled impatiently at the surrounding slats and lit his wand with a quick _lumos_. There, in the back left corner was a soft, leather book, its binding bent awkwardly to accommodate the limited space. Harry reached inside and pulled the book free, careful to hold the spine in place. He flipped the cover open and let his eyes wander lovingly across the elegant, familiar script boldly marking the first page.

Harry couldn't believe his eyes. It really did exist. He was finally going to satisfy the tearing in his heart. He had a flash of momentary guilt and snapped the cover closed. It was wrong to read his godfather's journal, a complete invasion of privacy. He could hear Hermione's shrill tones now, "_That journal is private, Harry. How would you like for someone to read your journal?" _But he could hear Ron's derisive snigger just as loudly, _"No offense, mate, but it's not like he's alive to object."_

And as usual, he found himself agreeing with Ron and turned once again to the first page, ignoring his imagined best friend's, _"Hrrumph." _

2nd September 1978

A start of another new year, journal. Normally, I would be excited by the prospect of another whole year of Quidditch, girls, pranks, and full moons, but even I have begun to notice the affect the War has had on my classmates, particularly Prongs…

Don't get me wrong – he's still as arrogant, brilliant, and loyal as ever, but he seems to have lost his spark. Take, for example, the beginning of the year feast. We always like to start the year off with some good old-fashioned Snivellus-baiting, but when we had him hanging upside down by his knickers in the corridor last night, he suddenly grabbed my arm, muttered to let him down, and ushered me quickly towards the Great Hall towards our waiting friends.

Moony and Wormtail were already seated at the Gryffindor table looking expectantly towards the Sorting Hat. Across from them, waving cheerily to capture our attention was Lily Evans. She patted the seat beside her before also turning her attention to the Sorting that was about to begin. It always struck me funny that Prongs and Lily had been best friends for longer than I had even known either of them. The whole school recognized that Prongs and I, despite that I was Black, were like brothers, but it was Lily's relationship with Prongs that baffled most of the school.

She was cuttingly honest and had an unerring streak of fairness running through her at the most unfortunate times, like when Prongs and I were in the midst of sabotaging Snivellus' Amortentia potion or charming the suits of armor to distract the Ravenclaw Quidditch team during the finals of the House Cup. Truth be told, I couldn't stand Lily our first two years at Hogwarts. But she slowly started to grow on me, particularly when I discovered that she had been the one to set Cornish Pixies loose in the Great Hall during the Halloween feast. She claimed it was an accident, but really, we all knew better.

But despite everything, Lily stuck to Prongs like a permanent sticking charm. Merlin know why, though. He's incorrigible. (McGonagall taught me that word!) But I have my sneaking suspicions that maybe their platonic friendship isn't as platonic as they make it seem, but whenever I bring my theory up, Prongs laughs loudly in my face and Lily looks embarrassed and escapes to the library as soon as she can. I'd be embarrassed too if someone suspected I fancied Prongs.

Yeah, Prongs is my best mate, along with Moony and Wormtail, but even I can admit that he can be a git at times. Not that I'm a saint either. But his house pride can make him ruthless, and while I love a good prank as much as the next marauder, even I know when too far is too far. And for a Black, that's pretty far. But Prongs takes it to the extreme sometimes. But that was before this summer. This summer, this war, changed a lot of things, especially Prongs.

But that's enough for now. I have double potions tomorrow, and if I'm going to have to put up with Slughorn that early in the morning, I'm going to need all the sleep I can get.

A/N: Don't forget to review!


	2. The Summer Before Sixth Year

A/N: Thanks for all of the story alerts! I'm thrilled to have some followers so soon. If I could ask for one more teeny tiny little thing…shoot a little review my way! I love hearing from my readers. I accept both compliments and criticisms. Just no flames, please. Enjoy!

Chapter 2 – The Summer Before Sixth Year

Absently crinkling the pages of the journal, Harry closed his eyes in confusion. He sifted through his hazy memories of fifth year and recalled Snape's worst memory of Sirius and his father bullying the Slytherin until his mother stepped in. Harry tried to recall the words his mother had thrown at them, but could only vaguely remember their tone—hostile and disapproving. But how could that be? If his mum and dad were supposedly best friends, how could Snape's memory hold true?

Harry rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. His back was aching from sitting in the same, hunched position for so long. He glanced around the room noting that the remaining furniture was not only covered in a grimy film, but eaten away by bedbugs and other creepy crawlies. Straightening up from his slouched position on the spindly desk chair, Harry snapped the journal shut and headed for the library. At least the chairs there had been covered and were most likely in better condition than the furniture in Sirius' old bedroom. The journal was thick enough to warrant a comfortable chaise lounge and roaring fire.

Ten minutes later, with a fire crackling in the fireplace, Harry settled comfortably into a plush settee and opened the journal once more. He was curious to see if Sirius would reveal what had happened to his father the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts. He scanned the second entry labeled '3 September 1978.' Finally, his eyes lit upon a section that mentioned Prongs. Shifting deeper in the chair, Harry began reading.

'It was good to see Prongs again after our summer apart. We had loads to catch up on, seeing as we couldn't owl each other or even send a letter by muggle post…'

With a resounding thump, I opened my eyes only to find myself staring at the cracked ceiling of the sixth year boys dormitory. I groaned and disentangled my legs from the blankets wrapped tightly about my lower half. A quiet snicker sounded from the drawn curtains of the bed on his right.

"Ha, bloody, ha," I snarled as I flopped back into bed.

James darted a look at the bed across the room. "Shh, you'll wake Wormtail."

I shrugged. "He sleeps like Cerberus doped up on honeycakes. Nothing short of a filibuster firework going off in his pants could wake him before breakfast. Besides, you're the one who was laughing."

"I wouldn't have laughed if you slept like a normal person…in your bed," he argued.

"You can hardly expect me to control myself when I'm dreaming, Prongs."

"Another McGonagall dream?" he mused.

I shuddered. "Yeah." A beat came and went before we both dissolved into silent snickers until our stomachs hurt and we lay exhausted on our sides. A comfortable silence enveloped the room until James broke the stillness with a quiet, "I missed this, you know."

"Me, too."

He cleared his throat, "How's your uncle? Is he as bad as your parents?"

"No one could be as vile as my parents. But yeah, he was okay. Ancient, but oblivious." I avoided James' inquisitive stare and picked at the buttons on my coverlet. I could tell he was dying to ask if I'd heard from my parents this summer, but I couldn't bring myself to talk about it yet. "What about you? Did you drive your mum crazy for me?"

He grinned and rolled his eyes. "You make it sound like I try to get on her nerves. Who wouldn't go crazy after being forced to spend three months together in a tiny cottage? I had to share a toilet with her, for Merlin's sake. I've seen things, mate. Things that no man should ever see."

He had my attention. "What kind of things?"

"Girl things," he whispered dramatically. We both shuddered.

"No offence, mate, but I would prefer Uncle Dolphus and his harpsichord over your mum's nagging any day. Glad no one saw fit to haul me into hiding. It was bad enough sharing meals with the ol' codger, but three months in the same house without quidditch to distract me? No, thanks."

"I'm taken aback by your empathy, Padfoot."

"I'm a Black, remember? Icy veins and all that rot."

We lapsed into silence again, this time less comfortable than that first. Neither of us wanted to mention the hippogriff in the room. Peter's snoring picked up as he rolled to his side before tapering off again. I glanced at James and met his gaze.

"Have you heard from your dad? You told me about the owl you got before the end of term, but-"

"No." He shifted uncomfortably.

I looked away, embarrassed for both of us, but continuing, "I reckon he's been so busy tracking Death Eaters he hasn't had time to write." He shrugged noncommittally. I paused before hesitantly adding, "I'd be terribly proud if he was my father, taking on dangerous missions in the name of the wizarding world. I'd be proud of mine if he'd just Avada himself already. Save your dad the trouble."

James sat up and leaned forward on his elbow. "You don't mean that, Padfoot. He may be a dark wizard, but he's still your dad. You wouldn't wish death on anyone, would you?"

"Yes." I said fiercely. "Voldemort. My parents…" I struggled for another name to add to my list. "Snivellus."

James' eyes widened. I'd gone too far. As much as James hated Snivellus, he was too bloody noble to wish him any actual harm. Me? I'd hang him up by his nose hairs in a heartbeat if I thought I could get away with it.

"Well, maybe not Snivellus," I lied.

"I think we should lay off Sniv-Snape a bit this year," he said, ignoring my blatant lie.

"Wha—why?" I stuttered. "He deserves it!"

He flopped back on his bed and stared at the crimson hangings. "It just seems kind of childish now, these stupid house rivalries. Especially when there's a war going on out there." He nodded to the window as if we could peer out and see a battle waging on the quidditch pitch.

"All the more reason to do it!" I argued. "Give everyone a bit of a laugh in these dark times."

James rolled his eyes. "Snape won't think it's funny."

I looked at him dumbly. "Who cares? It's Snivellus."

For the first time that night, and perhaps ever, James looked at me as if he was trying to study me. As if he was really seeing me for the first time. His blue eyes searched mine for something before he said quietly, "You really mean that, don't you?"

I stared back. It didn't sound like a question. It sounded more like a condemnation. Anger bubbled to the surface. What right did he have to judge me? I'd been around filth like Snape since I was born. I knew what kind of sickness ran through their veins. They prided themselves on supposedly having 'clean blood,' but really, theirs was far dirtier than any half-blood or muggleborn's blood.

Sneering I replied, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

He sighed. "Let's talk about this later, Padfoot. I'm knackered and if I'm going to trounce Malfoy tomorrow in Defense, I'd rather do it awake."

I snickered and mused aloud, "You probably _could_ duel Malfoy in your sleep—and win." I grinned at the thought, my mind conjuring images of a prostrate Malfoy and a furious Snape.

"_Pete_ could probably do it in his sleep!" James said, letting out a bark of laughter before covering his mouth with his hand and shooting a guilty look towards the sleeping marauder. Pete erupted in another loud snore and rolled over. I shared an amused look with James before settling back under my covers and whispering 'goodnight.'

It would be a long time before James would mention his father again, but his resolution to leave Snivellus alone never faded. Somewhere, in the heaviness of my heart, it felt like James was finally growing up—and leaving me, and our marauding ways, behind.


End file.
